Till the Day Comes
by Candle-tender Yena
Summary: "Apparently, life goes on even after my death." He has died. He is given a second chance at life. But already, he is too far from home. AU/ Damian Wayne
1. Prologue 1

**A/N: This is my first attempt at a Batman fanfic. I hope I do well in it.**

** This story will be mostly Damian-centric, but narratives as his first-person will ONLY be for the prologue. After the prologues (two of them), all narratives will go to normal third-person narratives. **

**Short summary: He was Robin. He has died. He has returned. Alone. Yet even upon return, Damian Wayne is not at all encouraged to see his family. Thus starts a new life full of intentional delays and escapes from reuniting; he reminds himself to always stay off-track. But ****he will come back, one day.**

**WARNING: OCs will pour the moment his 'new' life starts. Wait! Don't close this page! D:"**

**I think that's all. Please R&R! Enjoy~ ;)**

* * *

**Prologue I**

I do not remember as to how I have been resurrected. But I do remember the place I was found when I first opened my eyes. Even then, I do not know if I was alive or dead at the time. Maybe I was neither; I could've been in a different place. I will not deny it was a peaceful place to pass time. But I do not wish to speak of it just yet. For now, it will remain a memory, a beautiful one. To me.

Though I will not now and may not easily admit in future that the place was beautiful in itself.

Anyways.

By the time I realized I wasn't in the place I came to love, I find that I am back in the world. _My_ world.

Alive.

...I am not calm. Give me a moment to fix this panic.

…There.

I think, I will restart the..._biography_, by introducing myself.

My name is Damian Wayne.

And apparently, my life goes on even if I had died. Once.


	2. Prologue 2

**A/N: The paragraphs might alter a lot in verbal tenses and I admit - I'm a total mess in this chapter.**

**I will - mark my word I _will_ - improve this chapter some time in the future and set things right!**

**Until then, enjoy!**

**WARNING: I do not read the real comics; I feast off on wikis, meager scans and other fans' info. ****  
****Also, the geography of this story - names and races for regions and people - is strictly fictional (like DC Gotham doesn't really exist in reality), so no flames on that point. Of course, I 'll try to be fair. **

**Helpful information regarding the both reality/DC geography are welcome!**

**Enjoy~. ;)**

* * *

It has taken me weeks - _months_, to return to Gotham. But in spite of that fact, I have come to find myself unenthusiastic to see my family.

No; more likely I was terrified at the idea of seeing my family (yes _family_, I did say it twice – don't give me that funny look), up to the extent that I would feel very terribly sick. So even if I were at the bus stop for a ride that would have taken me close to the Manor – a good mile away, if not mistaken – I would stumble away from the queue with sudden nausea.

It wasn't just a physical rejection. I won't deny it: my own personal 'will' to not want to go had affected my body to react likewise.

And it would remain to react likewise from now onward too, I fear.

I decided to delay the reunion.

Traveling without cash is really inconvenient. I knew that much, but experience was much different.

Yet throughout the long beeline journey back to Gotham, despite the uncomfortable inconveniences, I was always blessed with the kindest people on Earth. From Hungary to England, to Mexico then the domestic travels within America to Gotham, there was always a person/family out there that would reach out to help me. When lucky, food, shelter and clothes came available as a complete set. Showers were such rarities that I came to see each opportunity as a luxury. Sometimes one item would be lacking from the equation, but by then I had learned to accept the existing good and remember to be grateful; something I learned during my stay in the beautiful world I mentioned before.

I remembered to return their kindness _not_ with arrogance but with gratitude, even going so far as to repay the good deed with a _suitable_ kindness. I have done house chores (I still believe this is servants' work), helped with travelling difficulties, guarded properties (a duty I imposed unto myself, as it was no different from my vigilante days), run humanely-impossible errands, etc. But I believe the biggest accomplishment was my aid in fixing a 'major' financial problem for a bank accountant whose wife took me in. In all honesty, if I were his boss, I would've fired the fool for his incompetence. Instead, I made a note after departure to remind myself that when I got back to Gotham, I would assign the man into the city's most _thorough_ accounting course - only for the sake of his loving wife, who has treated me with compassionate kindness till the end.

If it weren't for those people, I wouldn't be standing here in Gotham. Kindness showed it could replace money for someone to go on. But because I found my will to return home had disappeared, I wound up wandering aimlessly.

The discarded sunglasses I found back in Mexico and the set of clothes that was a parting gift concealed my identity as the familiar Damian Wayne. To top that, I have even tanned a few shades darker. I am not worried about exposure. Still, I was clueless as to what I was to do. It would have been simple before I died: I would have walked up to the Manor right to the front door (I was the soon-to-be-heir of the estate, yes?) and declare my homecoming. Now, though, the idea seemed repulsive.

My nature as a once-dead individual screams opposition to reappearance.

That was all I needed to - the _only_ thing I could - focus on. Reason-findings and further proper restatements were left for future work, when I am more stable from paranoia.

I realize later, over a piece of sandwich in the park bench, that I would need to gather information about the past months. Activities of Bruce Wayne were indeed a necessity because they could give hints about my family's state, and these were easy to obtain since Bruce Wayne was _everywhere_. What I can't get on media, though, was of Batman. As a figure who lived more in the shadows, my sense of importance belonged in my father's night job, and those were hardest to obtain. I could read off reports of the captures of criminals from newspapers - but then I wouldn't know much about the psychological aspects of things, for if it was one thing I worried, I worried about Grayson's well-being. Remembering that I had died after (finally) confessing to him my joy in being his partner had me suddenly realize the cruelty of fate; cruel to Grayson because he was stripped of a partner whom he, as far as I know, also called family: a combination of both things he would throw his life for. The image of the merry Grayson crumbling apart haunted me for the few days since I first realized about it.

I chucked my emptied food boxes in the nearest park dustbin and promptly set off straight to the libraries.

* * *

After hours of scourging through motionless black-and-white, the world that I stepped into outside the library suddenly seemed too colorful and boisterous.

But I could not hold anything against it. It was just doing its own business; striving to keep constancy in the mess of things. Even if I had disappeared, or if the place was filled with unknown tension in the shadows, the world would somehow seek to find momentum.

I find this truly gratifying.

Having found relevant 'outer layer' information about my family - Bruce Wayne and family except for newly appointed CEO Drake all hushed - I trudge towards the alleys, a place believed to host some of the infamous leaders of several gang clashes, in hopes of scraping off the 'rarer' details.

I did notice the heaviness in my heart that wanted to avoid knowing, though.

* * *

Mistake: I should have remembered that fighting in civilian clothing were a little nerve-wrecking, and that goons were less obedient/more stupid if it was not Robin who confronted them.

After several clashes, the numbers of alcohol-reeking (not drunk, mind you) scums increased, pouring out of their poor excuse of houses. That was when I decided enough was enough, then tear off. Thankfully, they chased me.

Fighting ruffians not as Robin but a sunglasses individual felt totally different because for once, I felt the thrill of fear. Fear. Robin had no reason, no excuse, to fear. Or be thrilled. Excited, perhaps. Never thrilled. Thrill shot up exponentially when a ruffian grabbed me - and slumped down when my fist found the way to freedom. Adrenaline prompted me to break more ruffians' bones than I usually wished. I even strangle the conscious ones, but not before I demanded every bit of information of Batman and his clan. Rumors and gossip babble. I never trusted the information fully, but I guess rumors were better than nothing.

One, though, was obviously smart enough to know something was amiss if somebody suddenly demanded to know about Batman's activities, and had the courage to ask: "What is Batman to you, kid?"

I hesitate. Lying was easy, really. But I found myself willing to voice a part of reality. So before I could stop myself I blurt: "An object of atonement."

The statement had several meanings to it, but not willing to let the quasi-drama spread new rumors, I knock the ruffian out cold. To believe this is the outcome of a mobbing, where the victim was supposedly me and the criminals a small trio, was downright amusing. I massage my bruised chin and leave.

Wandering the back alleys in Gotham prove to be more adventurous than I thought it would be. Or maybe this was the effects of being reborn - that I was able to come out of the alleys after exploring them at a leisurely slow pace, and yet be able to emerge back as one piece.

* * *

Halfway, I find an interesting item: a bo-staff. Not just any bo-staff, and not just a vigilante's staff, but Drake's. I can recognize the shape anywhere; the weight, feel and components of it upon holding it is just a confirmation. Maybe the reason why I could recognize the weapon purely by shape was because it was protruding out from a murky river like a toothpick. It caught my attention like a diamond, and I find myself leaning forward, topsy-turvy, to reach it.

I hold on to the staff Drake has dropped into a river. I assume he has lost it during a battle. Tt. I cannot blame him for being unable to retrieve weapons that could lad to identity exposures. But I _can_ blame him for being so weak to be overpowered enough to lose a weapon.

I think I would keep it for him. And use it in his stead too, for the poor weapon needs a good exercise.

* * *

I sought shelter in one of the hide-houses I set up back in the days when I was Robin. I could trust myself to sleep there because none of my family members know about it. I have never found the need to inform them.

Exhausted as I may be, I am also restless. Soon, I was tampering with pieces of metals I have stored back in a corner, successfully making a frequency-receiver. It was a frail thing - a few minutes of concentrated work would inevitably pressure it to destruction - but it would last long enough for me to make a small hack into Oracle's networks.

I never have problems if it came to hacking systems under normal circumstances. Not even Oracle's firewalls or self-explosives would stop me. However, my situation was anything _but_ normal; so my frail-made little receiver was obviously useless against her securities. Yet frail or not, I wasn't one to waste another's potential. I settled down for chipping off tiny information pieces from her mainstream - something relatively easy even for this timid gadget to do and remain quite unidentifiable on a normal basis.

Pieces of information came out like leaks from a broken radio. Straining my ears to hear the nostalgic voices was a funny sight to sub-ponder about.

I've managed to learn quite a few new things: the real reason to the death of Knight. Random cases in Gotham. My father's absence (that was slightly worrying). Grayson's well-being. Drake, Todd, Pennyworth. My nameless grave.

Another news I came to stumble across: Talia al Guhl was dead.

My hands numbed.

I have lost my mother. I find myself saddened at this. True; she may have been my death, but I still loved her.

For the night, just that news was enough for me to not feel upset when the receiver crumbled to pieces on its own. If anything, it just served as the cue for sleep, so I crawled back to the spare set of blankets.

In a way, the receiver had done an excellent job in exceeding its duties.

* * *

Morning did not stop itself from coming the next day, and even then after waking, I stare at the rays of sunlight that peeked from a hole in the wall, basking in its gentle warmth for quite some time. It was truly welcoming, the soft orange. It didn't only offer extra warmth, but it also soothed my distress. My brain is still sleep-addled as well.

I regret not considering much about warmer attire when I stocked this place. Dawn brought about a fresh veil of spring frost, and it was all I could do to keep myself warm by wrapping the blankets tighter around me, especially my feet.

The only thing I could praise myself for is the food I have stashed in a crate at the corner. Unfortunately, since I hardly fascinated myself over 'preserved food', or what they called those food in metal tins I highly do not think as 'food', there was only little in store. The best meal I could make up consisted of biscuits, dried fruits and a bottle of water. Utterly insufficient, but I blame my past self for being obnoxiously arrogant - oh, and stubborn as well.

Then I see an unfamiliar green box. Frowning, I pull it out - and immediately recoil in shock.

Granola bars. What Grayson gave me when he first (and hopefully the last) caught me smuggling food supplies.

Flashbacks of a grinning idiot, a pat on the back, a finger to the pursed lips that indicated silent truce, a back turned to promise ignorance - hit me badly. I doubled over, my hand shaking as I grab the rim of the crate, willing the tremors to stop. Once I finally regained composure, I glare at the box of green.

Still, I reach out for it. One bar couldn't possibly hurt. Then again, it could be the sudden loneliness and not really survival instinct that made me reached for the food.

Having finally assembled somethings to call a meal, I settle down to nibble on a biscuit, pondering over the current situation I was in.

I have thrown away that position as the heir of a world leader. But I have also lost the position as a Robin - death made that natural flow. Last night's pieces of information came back to me. My 'grave'. My apparently nameless grave. Was it not engraved with words, I suppose? Well, it was understandable. I died as Robin then, and I could never come out as Damian Wayne. Though, if it were a proper burial of a military soldier or even a police, I would've been promoted to higher ranks in honor of my death (in reality, it is also the compensation for a loss of a loved life). I almost wish father would write on my gravestone "Son of Batman" – it's definitely less paparazzi-attracting than "Son of Bruce Wayne". To write a symbol that would depict me, to name me, identify to whom I belonged to - would that be too much to ask of? I wonder.

But phrased differently, it also means I have lost my identity as a solo vigilante. I have no name. Damian Wayne will always be my one and _only_ true name, given solely to me for me since birth; but the world has "Damian Wayne" no more. _He_ is dead.

So my true name will have no value for now.

I do not know how I have resurrected either. It could not be the Lazarus Pits, because I recall what Todd mentioned about pit-madness. Unlike the symptoms, I am perfectly calm and sane - unless, of course, I _had_ already gone through the stages of madness without realizing or remembering it. If so, it at least filled what remaining gaps of days I have lost since my death.

Then again it is impossible, for the Pit would require my real body, but I do not sense any panic in the Wayne house. Nothing is amiss. My grave is apparently left untouched peacefully. Unless a mole has dug my coffin containing my real body from underground, I do not see the possibilities of having my body being collected without alerting people. And there is absolutely no way that father would revive me; I know him too well. Grayson might, but this time, I sense it is a no.

Unless grandfather was behind this.

The flashback of my grandfather seizes me and I jump in fright, not realizing I yelped too. The safe-house suddenly felt lonelier and sadder than before. It wasn't helping my mood trying to _eat_. Maybe I had bathed in the Pits, because surely it would be odd if flashbacks like these assault me from time to time? Yet I have the feeling that the experience only worsened when I got closer to Gotham, and that grandfather had absolutely nothing to do with it. I would have known if he was. Blood confidence.

Then I notice the sun had risen quite considerably. I stare at in disbelief. Surely it could not have been more than two hours? But then, my sense of time _had_ been blurred terribly due to months of constant travelling and moving on. Or to be precise: my importance towards time had been dulled. Two hours in the middle of a dessert meant nothing to a man; whereas twenty minutes in a city meant money.

It's not long before I have stuffed my breakfast into a small bag, preparing to leave. It was not favorable if one stayed too long in a place, especially when bad memories start to haunt you.

The bag was woven and presented to me by the old grandmother of the small albeit-tribal family I traveled with in Mexico. It was brown, pink and yellow, with gaudy weaving as designs, its dimension no bigger than a 30 centimeters square. Perhaps the bag's design being in complete contrast to the past me's real personality comforts me, knowing that it would also serve as another cover for my identity. Fond memories floated as I stroke its surface, feeling its rough, durable material. Warmth. It has been long since I had companions in travelling.

In fact, it has also been long since I last took a shower. I frown. The last time I had a shower was two days ago, prior to leaving in a shuttle bus straight for Gotham. Yesterday should have be fine, but after the clash in the alley, I'm not quite confident anymore. I stamp my foot. It is frustrating. Perhaps the best method to mask my odor for now was to roam in the streets of Gotham again.

Mind made up, I sling the bag over my shoulder and leave the safe-house.

* * *

Gotham has not changed much since my death. Knowing it, I am unsure if I should be rejoicing at the fact that my hometown has remained unchanged for me, or if I should be lamenting at the fact that it also means the crimes had never decreased and are as ghastly as usual.

But the city is also big. Vastly big. It is impossible to travel from one district to another by foot without even stopping _once_ to take in your surroundings. And as for me, I was Robin, I was trained to be alert. If I happened to be distracted, at least my body would autopilot to go to places I deemed as _safe_, nowhere else. But when I suddenly jolt back to reality, I find myself in a not-quite familiar place.

I panicked. My brains recalls Gotham's geography. How is it that I have ended up in the next district? I had not realized I was walking that long, and the sun was already high. Curse my distracted mind!

I recognize the river, and the dank buildings with eroded walls. But I have walked too close, stopped too late, and slipped ankle-deep into the river. It wasn't like quick sand, thank goodness, but I still flailed a bit trying to get out. The place was becoming eerily familiar. My mind is constructing paths I could take from here - _have_ taken. I have been here. Memories start to flood my sight...

"Damian?"

The voice is almost too rare to be remembered; but recognized I did. My head shoots up to see the face.

A small, freckled boy about my age is leaning over. His eyes are wide and his mouth in the shape of an 'o', looking like he had seen a ghost. Only, it resembled not those of horror, but of awe. His face soon breaks into a full grin.

"Hi!" Colin Wilkes says, "Didn't see you for some time!"

* * *

Though it could not be helped that I was by no doubt his friend, I could not hep but wonder at the same time at Colin Wilkes very little wariness towards me.

Apart from being Robin and Abuse, and having shared an experience with vigilante work which was defeating the monster Zsasz, we had no connections. Well...maybe I had accepted him as a friend. But that was as an ally. Or is it now? Maybe I was just playing along with Wilkes right now because he believed I accepted him and was being happy because of it.

I am unsure if I should be honored or unimpressed for his trust in me.

"Well, here we are!" he happily chirps and pulls the shutters of a garage. I suppressed the involuntary jolt at remembering the place: the garage we last saw each other. Where I had given him the trike.

He ushers me in quickly, as if he is afraid somebody saw us. He has a point there.

Once he shuts it, he breaks off into an excited chatter while he runs about, barring windows more enclosed to prevent spies and even moving some objects in what I could only see as random positions. The garage apparently, had turned into more than just a garage. Venturing deeper towards the furthest corner from the entrance, hidden behind walls of cardboard boxes and crates, there was a small opening with a sink whose surroundings was both a kitchen and a washroom.

Only a single light bulb lighted the tiny sanctuary. Ragged towels hung from the laundry lines. The sink was white, with a bar of soap sitting on one side while a cup containing a set of toothpaste and toothbrushes (both giant and small size noted) sitting on the other. Just beside the sink on the floor was a shelf. When Wilkes slides the doors open to raid it, I can see it's filled with first aid supplies, along with what suspiciously looked like biscuit boxes and food tins.

Not impressed. Body soap, bathing equipment or even sinks should not be near food at all.

"I am surprised you made this into a headquarters," I say instead.

Colin grins. "Glad to know I get to surprise you."

...Unexpected.

He's sitting on the floor when I come behind the wall to see. A small kettle boiled on a portable gas stove in front of him. I squat down beside. He chucks a mug at me and says, "Here. I doubt it fits your taste, though."

"...Your hospitality is greatly welcomed," I manage to force a smile, accepting the drink. He smiles in his mug.

For a while we just sit there sipping at the (extremely) hot cocoa.

"Wow," he says a while later after comfortable silence, "You don't know how awed I am being here! And you know, a lot of things have changed since - I met you."

He was being subtle. I knew the pause was meant for 'we became allies', or whatnot. I could read the flash of remembering, looking caught then hasty change all in half a second of facial expression. But Colin pretends like he never slipped, and falls into an unstoppable rambling of past activities.

At first, I suspected. I suspected that he knew, but he was just being polite and tried not to mention it. But as his conversation went on and he soon attempts to get me to introduce him to Batman, my eyes widen in disbelief. He didn't know? No way.

But here he is chattering on non-stop, completely excited, and I knew he was honest. My hands grips my mug tighter.

Colin does not know about my death.

But I cannot hide this forever.

"You must be warned forehand."

He shuts up almost immediately, and turns to face me fully. The honesty, his eagerness scares me, I nearly tremble; cave in to the straightness.

But courage held me strong. I finally found the voice - an unwavering one too - to continue.

"You must be warned forehand: I have died."

* * *

**A/N: It was rushed. *shrugs* Reviews! Flames accepted as well (begrudgingly tho, LOL).**


	3. 1 Chapter 1

**A/N: New chapter! The story from now on will be third person POV, a change that I've already mentioned in the previous chapter. The story officially starts now! Enjoy~! **

* * *

Damian fiddled with the scarf around his neck. The silence was becoming eerie, but who was he to blame? He was the one who brought up the story. It was only natural that stupefied dumbness followed after a simple "I have died".

_ I have died._

The words still echoed freshly in his head.

Colin was polite, for a boy being shocked. He dropped his jaw once he knew he wasn't bluffing, and immediately pounced asking questions: when and why did he die (though being a vigilante himself, Colin didn't quite press the latter); did he spend his dead-time as a ghost (that was astonishing, but Damian knew what the answer was and replied no); and how did he come back alive, since he said he had died. Damian didn't answer that one outright, but Colin understood his hesitation and didn't press on, again.

After the interrogation, the redhead wordlessly stared at the kettle. Except for the small traces of looking disturbed on his face, he looked rather calm.

While they stayed silent, Damian contemplated. He realized he found the last question unanswerable, not just because he didn't want to, but because he couldn't. And not just he couldn't because _it-must-not-be-known-it-is-top-secret_; Damian realized he could not recall _how_ he came back. Sure, he remembered the travel from Hungary then back here. He even remembered dropping onto the heather bush in that forsaken, freezing hillside from a bright-lit world.

But he could not remember how exactly the world looked like.

Just this morning, he assumed his lost days which he couldn't exactly recall were due to Pit madness. Now though, he was quite sure it wasn't. None of the memories he knew he lived were listed in Todd's (or grandfather's) experience of the Pits: He remembered light – evening, almost golden, light – and faces. A woman, maybe. Then feathers. The geography he first recalled was grassy plains. He remembered almost drowning in that really long grass. Then the place suddenly changed to a place full of clouds. A dazzlingly bright sun lit the horizons. A voice. Falling. More feathers.

If some other fool heard his rambling, they'd say he saw an angel. Damian would rip their tongues out for the idiocy.

"So."

The sudden break in the quiet almost made him jumped, but luckily, he stood ground enough to remain passive. "So?"

The redhead watched him. "What do you want to do right now?"

Damian leaned back, perplexed. It wasn't quite what he expected. Maybe a "what are you going to do right now". Not this.

"I…" he frowned, "What am I supposed to do?"

Colin shrugged. "Your choice."

He was puzzled. "Choice?"

"You came back. You could, well, do anything you 'have' to do. But since you died, I think the word 'want' to do sounds fitting. But you could…" his eyes widened. "You haven't go back to Batman, have you?"

Damian looked away.

"Damian," Colin had a stern voice, "did you see Batman?"

He remained silent.

This time, there was more anger in his friend's voice. "Did you visit your family?"

Piqued at being patronized, Damian snapped: "Whether or not I have seen them is not your business!"

"What?" Colin groaned and rubbed his temples. "Okay, fine, not my business. But Damian, even if you don't want to see Batman, you _have_ to see your family. They might still believe you're dead! – Wait."

Colin frowned at him. "Does your family know?"

"Know what?"

"That…you know. You're Robin. Do they? You died in action."

"Some information isn't supposed to be shared."

"That doesn't answer my question!"

"It does, and if you used your brain called Abuse, maybe you would understand!"

Colin threw his hands in the air. "Fine, play the hard way. No, but seriously, you _have_ to see them at least once. And, they are still in grieving."

"Are?" Damian frowned.

"Batman. Nightwing. They've recovered enough to show action and smiles respectively, but everybody knows a façade when there's one."

And Damian believed every word Colin said – because he knows. Deep down, in his heart, no matter how much he demands from father or Grayson or anyone else, he knows that, Batman or not, they were as good as gone because of Damian. He could hope. Hope that they were hanging on, that they have overcome, that they knew how to live on. He could hope; but hope meant nothing when there were _facts_.

"I know," he managed to answer, though stiffly, "I know."

Colin studied him for a while. They were sitting side to side, in a semi-arc around the gas stove with red kettle. The sun had set to midafternoon, and Damian was glad he chose this garage when he bought it. The area was hardly populated.

The redhead clasped his hands and leaned forward to the kettle.

"_Man_," he exhaled, "We have a lot to talk."

"Talk?"

"Oh, you know…" Damian stared at his friend who was waving a dismissive arm in the air. "We don't know each other well. I guess…maybe, if we knew each other more, we could avoid stepping toes?"

Damian stared. "Maybe for you, but I don't step on toes unless necessary."

Colin inclined his head. "Is that a joke?"

"I don't joke."

"Okay, maybe I was the one who did a lot of stepping on toes when I talked."

"How?" The raven-haired boy looked at his feet then Colin's, then whipped his head around to see the whole garage, slightly alarmed. "I don't see any toes nearby except for ours; even then your feet were not positioned to step on anything. Plus, how does talking prevent accidental missteps? Or…"

He turned back and nearly jerked away. Colin was gawking at him. Slightly disturbed, Damian folded his arms across his chest, hoping to look intimidating. "Okay, spill. Is this some kind of code?"

Colin's mouth split apart into a funny shape and when voice started pouring out from it, it took Damian five seconds later to realize that Colin had been grinning and was currently bursting out laughing.

"What?" he shouted. All he got was more laughter. And a redhead rolling on the floor.

Damian first analyzed the laughing face to confirm (out of habits and wary nature) that the Joker laugh gas had nothing to do with it. When he found it positive, he finally settled down and decided to yell a threat to Colin for him to spill the beans, only to have the redhead finally wheezing.

"'Stepping toes' means to irritate each other unwillingly!" Colin laughed, "Geez, I guess Robin was raised differently from us."

Damian bit back a (possibly hurtful) retort and instead noted down the phrase in his internal dictionary. He crossed his arms over his chest, unimpressed, while he waited beside a hooting redhead.

Thirty seconds later, Colin calmed down at last. He got up and brushed the dust off his jeans. He grinned at Dami. "Sorry?"

"Better be." He growled.

"Here, let me," he held out his hand. Damian smacked the empty mug into it, and the grinning Colin went to wash it.

"Is this place inhibited?" Damian asked, looking around. It was wide, and there were a few steel structures high above that held the ceiling – to others, it may look like the darkest spot you wanted to avoid. To him, he also and only saw it as the perfect place to sleep.

Colin's eyebrows furrowed as he tried to process the language. "Umm, not exactly. Why?"

"I wish to stay a night here."

"Oh, sure, of course! Why do you _ask_?" Colin whirled around to him, "You were the one who bought this place! You practically have at least half a right to this place! Heck, I thought you bought this so we could make it into a hideout?"

"Hideout?"

"Point is: you're welcome anytime, Damian!" Colin grinned, hastily putting the washed mugs away, "Wait here. I think there are spare mattresses around here – "

"No need –" Damian started but Colin had already run to another corner of the garage excitedly. Damian sighed, and followed the redhead.

He was ransacking a pile of crates when he reached him. Colin pulled out cloth rags and bits of things that looked a lot like unusable utensils, digging deeper and deeper till his head and half of the top-body disappeared. "Too small. Dusty – phew! I have to wash this sometime…Oh! A pillow! – with a hole in it. Sheesh…"

"Ahem." Damian coughed. Colin jumped out from the box. He turned around, and blinked in surprise when he saw an extra baggage he hadn't noticed before.

"Your hospitality is appreciated, but I already have a mattress." Damian said, patting the sleeping bag. He was lucky to have it since the days he started travelling Europe – but currently, as much as he was happy to have it now, he was mad at himself for not remembering to use it last night. He was sure he had accustomed to the habit of zipping himself in the thing; why didn't he use it on the freezing time like last night was a complete mystery.

Colin pouted.

"Aw, okay." He meekly started keeping his things.

"There is no need to look so meek, Colin."

"Nah…just…I kind of hoped to be of good use." Colin admitted. To Damian's raised eyebrows, he explained, "We've never really got to hang out or even fight baddies enough as both identities. There weren't many opportunities for me to…I dunno; prove my worth? Oh forget it.

"Speaking of hospitality," he looked at the slightly worn out duffel bags, "how long have you been using that?"

"Since I used it during my trip in Europe…I assume it would be six months."

The redhead whistled. "You _really_ did travel, didn't you?"

"So you doubted it?" Damian sighed. He was kind of used to it; it was the same question every city-civilian asked when they met him.

"No, no, no! I mean…it's not quite often I see a kid carrying a bag made ready to travel," Colin quickly amended.

"Save your breath if you cannot speak right," Damian grumbled and strode towards the middle of the garage. Colin scrambled after.

"Wait! Where are you going?" he yelped.

"Up." With that, the former Robin jumped – or in Colin's view, 'hopped' – up the steel pillars to the roof truss above. Upon reaching them, he settled for the darkest area beside a side post. He never stayed close to the sides, because that was where the ceiling aka roofs were closest to the surface; if he was unlucky, some roof-running villain could get him through the roof by piercing a sword. He shuddered at the memory.

Colin stared at his friend who was now up fifty meters in the air, awe-struck. His gawking mouth had troubles finding its way to shut back.

"Hey, Damian?" he called. Damian peeked down. "Yes?"

"Err, do you like it up there?"

Damian rolled his eyes. "It is preferable than the ground. It keeps me from the sight of unexpected visitors."

"Mind if I add that it's also dark?" Damian caught Colin grinning at him again and knew by sheer instinct the redhead was teasing him. He contemplated the insult until he realized it wasn't exactly an insult, but a 'tease'. Still…

"Shut it."

* * *

Colin had to run back to the church for lunch, and hastily left the place – not before shutting the garage 'locked' under Damian's order though.

His departure had given Damian a peace of mind he hadn't realized he never had; namely, an accurate time.

Before, Damian had to determine time by the angle of the sunlight (which hardly fails) and by natural senses like humidity and temperature. It wasn't to say there weren't clocks. At most places where he journeyed, there were lots of them, but really, hectic amount of working and walking nulls the necessity to _look_ at one. He was eventually numbed to some extent of not bothering to be mechanically-precise about the time of the day.

Now, he knew at least that Colin had "left fifteen minutes before" said mid-noon lunch aka the time was currently 11:45am. When he mentioned the absence of a time-checking routine, Colin gave him a small alarm clock that he'd spared in the garage to keep track of time. Damian thought of bringing the clock upstairs with him, but since even its faintest ticks might unintentionally give way to his hiding place, he decided to keep it downstairs on a wooden crate in the 'kitchen'. Finally, Damian was back on time's track.

While waiting, he sorted out his belongings from his small Mexican bag: a spare set of clothes, a few trinkets that were 'souvenirs', odd ends of medical equipment, this morning's breakfast. It wasn't much to begin with, so he just listed them in his head and kept everything back except for the breakfast, stashing the bag next to the side post. He sat on the ridge beam, legs dangling over, and nibbled on the biscuit, waiting for Colin to return – or simply, for the day to pass.

Much to his joy, Colin did return.

"Sorry!" was the redhead's first word, "Even though I left early, I stumbled upon some goons trying to rob a poor old lady, so I had to beat them up and drop them to the nearest police station before going back. In conclusion, I was late for lunch for fifteen minutes – and sister Agnes made me scrub the kitchen tiles as punishment. Man! And I had my lunch portion lessoned too…"

"At least on the outside, you've spared the world a bunch of menace," Damian snorted, "maybe this time you may pick up the task of practicing to clean up faster."

"You mean clean up the cities or the kitchen tiles? Coz I'm fairly sure you meant both."

Damian merely tutted. Colin took that as a yes, and grinned. "Mind if I come up?"

Damian started, and peeked over. He judged the distance between up here and the redhead, who was looking up excitedly. Personally speaking, the distance was ridiculously easy. General speaking, though…

"Can you climb up?" He finally asked. He couldn't quite trust either Colin _or_ Abuse to reach here without casualties.

"Worth trying," was the reply and Colin started hauling himself up – or tried to, at least.

The entire journey to the mid-ceiling took twenty minutes. Colin realized the problem within the first ten seconds that unless you were Robin, nobody could climb up a smooth-surfaced pillar, much less reach the top. He couldn't skip-kick the pillar's surface to propel himself upwards (like how Damian did). He didn't have those guns where lifelines shot out and hook themselves to the desired destinations (after one minute, Colin was tempted to ask Damian for one out of sheer frustration – luckily, he managed to shut up upon remembering it was still a taboo). The redhead had to wrestle with the pillar for another ten minutes – and finally, made progress upon climbing thirty centimeters off-ground. He still slid down after every success, though.

During all that, Damian had to watch the pitiful state his friend was in. At one point, he got up from his position to hoist the boy up himself, but no longer than a millimeter did his rump left the surface Colin immediately snapped at him to "let me try this!" In the end, Colin had to claw at each bolt head bolted in the pillar in order to climb his way up.

"Twenty minutes was agonizingly long," Damian admitted to his friend, who finally reached the ridge beam and was clinging onto the steel, panting heavily and quite out of breathe, "But considering you made it up here seven minutes after you discovered the bolts, I consider it an adequate pass."

For the first time since Damian came here, Colin didn't hold back to give his raven-haired friend a full-scaled glare. For some reason, Damian found that refreshing. So _he_ grinned, for the first time since he came here, and said: "What?"

Colin groaned. "Easy for you to say, Mr Bird. _Seven minutes_. An _adequate pass_. Tell me how many other kids with the same situation as me could accomplish that kind of record, hmm? Dang, I wish Abuse could have super-powers like jumping a hundred meters in the air."

"You could always improvise," Damian pointed out, "like for instance, you could practice methods on how to efficiently clean up the kitchen tiles when you are living normally. And when you live vigilant, you could practice methods on how to scale buildings, or even train physically to jump over houses. It would be hugely convenient if you could do that."

Colin had shifted himself upwards so he was leaning with his elbows by then, and dropped his jaw at Damian's suggestion. "Gawd, that's just awesome! I want to train already!" His face lit up in excitement and he looked down to the floor. Unfortunately, the concrete seemed eons of meters way too far.

"Uh…" he glanced at the raven-haired, "on second thoughts, I'll start next time?"

Damian raised his eyebrows. "I'm not one to judge. Not just yet."

"Right, not just yet. Why am I not surprised?"

"Why did you come up here?"

Colin shrugged. "I dunno. If we are to spend the time together, the closer the meaningful, right? I mean, who spends time with each other under the same roof but in totally different rooms? That's just stupid."

"Indeed, I begrudgingly admit that is a logical explanation," Damian grumbled. Colin looked smug.

"So, how about we start talking?"

"Already the blabbermouth, are we?"

Colin waved him away. "We have tonnes to talk, like for instance: you reuniting with your family."

Not that again. Damian glared at him. "Do not meddle with family matters, Wilkes."

Colin raised his eyebrows. "Whoa, people call people by the surnames when they're angry. But I'm not buying it. We have to find some way to meet them…"

"Better buy it," Damian grumbled. He couldn't quite utter the 'or you'll be sorry' end of the sentence, because…well, Colin had been good to him. It would be outrageously rude on his part if he dared say so.

"Not. Look, I don't want to bring out my trump card either, Damian," Colin crossed his arms over his chest, "so you listen to me now and save us both unnecessary squabbles, okay?

"I know it's hard for you to talk about your family since, well, there are three possibilities: they knew you were Robin and know you are dead; they didn't know you were Robin but know you are dead; or they don't know both that you are Robin and that you have been dead for the last…six months or so? But that's kind of impossible since they sure as hell must realize that you're absent…"

A look suddenly dawned onto Colin. The young Wayne wasn't about to let his friend's absurdly brilliant mind to start creating new possible scenarios any more.

"Look, can we please not talk about my family?" Damian pleaded for the first time in his life, "I am not quite ready to face the decision yet, and it's the main reason why I'm still roaming around." He swiped his arm around for emphasis.

Colin looked at him oddly. He jabbed an index finger accusingly. "You still need to fess up."

"Next time. Promise," he said quietly. He really couldn't think about his family without being overwhelmed by the emotions in him. Pathetic.

Colin's anger deflated a little at that, and was replaced with a look of relief. "Fine. I trust you."

"Now no more talk."

Colin shrugged his assent, all the time studying his friend's facial expression. He carefully chose the phrasings for his next question, so he wouldn't give Damian a chance to 'escape'. "Stay here for the time being, okay?"

It was originally 'could' stay here. He opted for 'should' stay here. Externally, his body apparently wasn't satisfied with suggestions and did the extreme to settle for an order instead.

He just hoped that Damian returned an 'okay' too.

Damian sent a wary glare at him. "It is much appreciated if it does not bring unwanted inconvenience to both parties."

Ooh. That was dangerous. Colin will have to keep away from the subject for now, if he wanted to keep Damian in this place. "I won't mention it again," he promised.

"Hey, since we're not going to talk anymore, do you want to play cards?" Colin asked.

"Cards?"

"I have some of them here! They're down…" Oh. They're down.

Both of them looked below the ridge beam. The concrete floors still look menacingly far.

"Shall I get them for you?" Damian asked out of pity when he glanced and saw a devastated redhead. Colin perked up immediately and nodded. "Please?"

Damian easily jumped down the pillars, and with Colin's instructions, walked towards the wooden crates where the redhead previously raided. He retrieved the box of cards after raiding it himself then came back only to easily skip-kick the pillar again and back to their resting place. Man did Colin felt jealous. He silently swore to himself to train somewhere so he could at least climb up poles faster. Minimally handy.

The two of them spent the rest of the afternoon playing card games.

* * *

Six o'clock was Colin's cue for the night. Since he was hopeless at climbing up, letting the redhead clamber down himself was too ridiculously risky a life-gamble, so Damian forced the redhead to allow the former-Robin to carry him down. They got down safely enough. Colin freaked out a little, having to see the surface and many other tangible surfaces swaying and swooning in dangerously.

"I'm definitely going to master climbing up this pillar," Colin growled. He leaned against the said pillar, waiting for his dizziness to disappear.

Damian shrugged. "If it means sparing yourself from seasickness," he said.

"Are you going to see me to the door?" Colin joked.

"Nope," Damian said curtly before flipping back in air, "I won't risk being seen left alone in this place." And before Colin knew it, he was back on the ridge beam. Colin frowned at him.

"Are you constantly climbing up and down like that just to annoy me, or what?"

All he received was a grinning raven-haired boy. "Never realized your annoyance. My bad, Colin."

Colin rolled his eyes. This guy could be a kid at times. Great; now his headache had subdued too.

On his way out, Colin remembered something and scurried back. "Hey, I was wondering…how many languages did you pick up in your travels?"

Up there, Damian paused spreading his sleeping bag. Hmm, good question. He had been constantly battling with linguistics, but it was _amazing_ how he easily forgotten that he had been struggling to communicate up till just a few days ago.

"Three: Hungarian, Mexican and dumb-language. Why do you ask?"

"Huh? What's dumb-language?"

"It's a language consisting only of non-verbal jesters so I can pretend to be a dumb adolescent to people who have a tendency to pry a lot."

"…You made that up didn't you?"

"If you do not leave now, you will suffer scrubbing the kitchen tiles again by your Sister Agnes. And that was bad phrasing, Colin: I did not 'make it up', I 'invented' it. Do notice the errors of English since it is the only language you suffice in."

"…Teach me a few sometime, 'kay?"

"Very well."

Colin still made no attempt to go back just yet. Puzzled, Damian peeked down. "What is the matter?"

"Are you…what did you do last night?"

Last night? "I was asleep," he answered, even more confused at the question.

The redhead nodded and scurried out of the place. Damian waited until he heard the garage doors being slid closed and the locks clicking into place and slumped back a little. He was still confused.

Though the night was early and his stomach quite empty, he felt sleep slowly crawling into his veins. It was long since he sincerely and fully conversed with another human being. This afternoon's conversing and albeit arguing with Colin had taken its toll on his social-skills-deficient mentality. Now, he was so drained that both eating and sleeping appealed to him. On another case, he could sneak out of here and wander down the streets.

He debated the three options for fifteen seconds and ended up opting to snuggle in the sleeping bag. It wasn't too long before the former-Robin succumbed to sleep.


End file.
